


waiting for the hint of a spark

by nerdytardis



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Napoleon, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Self-Sacrifice, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdytardis/pseuds/nerdytardis
Summary: When a "simple" mission goes wrong, Napoleon and Illya open up to each other like never before.  Between confessions and revelations, something new sparks between them.Or, Napoleon reaches a turning point, Illya fails at being anti-social, and Gaby is the only one getting her job done.





	waiting for the hint of a spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calmena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmena/gifts).



> Written for the TMFU Summer Exchange! I tried to hit as many of your prompts as I could, especially since they were all so good :D
> 
> Title is from "I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie, because I just couldn't resist lmao  
> Sorry for any mistakes, and I hope you enjoy!

“You okay over there, Peril?”

The only answer Napoleon got was a grimace, shot towards him from across the small pool they were currently lounging around.  Well, Gaby and Napoleon were lounging, drinks in hand.  Illya was simply sitting, visibly uncomfortable, a few feet away from them. 

“It’s the heat,” Gaby said, not even looking up from her magazine, “He always hates the heat.”

Napoleon shrugged a little and turned back to the Russian, “Maybe he should take off a few layers.”

Illya narrowed his eyes at him, as Gaby’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose up to meet her equally perfect bangs. 

Napoleon struggled to keep the smirk off his face, and endeavored to continue meeting Illya’s gaze. 

“I am perfectly comfortable.” Illya said, his eyes narrowing at Napoleon, “And am amazed you have the time to comment on my clothes when you obviously care so little for that suit you are sweating through.”

Gaby’s eyes silently flashed back over to Napoleon, widening a little.  _She’s enjoying this far too much_ , Napoleon thought, his own smile starting to fade.  After failing to find anything smart to quip back quickly enough, he simply took a sip of his drink and looked away. 

Illya made a pleased noise, seeming to brighten at Napoleon’s failure, and laid back a little more comfortably on his lounge chair.  Of course, when the Russian folded his arms behind his head, his shirt started to ride up, revealing a sliver of his stomach.   

At the sight of the pale skin and dark hair, Napoleon’s brain short-circuited.  Before he even recognized what was happening, he was choking on his drink, sputtering as it spilled over his chin and onto his shirt. 

Both Gaby and Illya looked over at him, watching as Napoleon floundered around. 

“Are _you_ okay Cowboy?” Illya said, smirking. 

Napoleon ignored him, and Gaby’s giggle, as he got up to pour himself a new drink, hoping that the red flush of embarrassment he could feel heating up his ears would be hidden under the effects of the sun. 

Shaking his head, Napoleon filled his glass up a little more than was probably fashionable and tried to pull himself together.  After dedicating his life to hiding in plain sight, keeping his own motives hidden, it was infuriating that he could be beaten by something as simple as a patch of exposed skin. 

But, after almost a year of working with UNCLE, it was becoming increasingly clear that this particular Russian was Napoleon’s ultimate weakness. 

The spark had been there from the beginning, and not just the physical attraction.  Napoleon had always felt a kind of electricity run through him when he was with Illya, even before he knew the Russian’s name.  It was impossible for him not to be intrigued by someone so devoted to his job that he would rip the back off of a moving car and still not give up the chase. 

When they had to start working side by side—when Napoleon actually got to glimpse at the man beneath the pretty face and quick temper—he became more than just intrigued, and things escalated dramatically from there. 

The realization hit him for the first time one morning over eggs, as he watched a still-sleepy Illya comb his hair in the single mirror they had to share in the hotel room—he stopped denying it when he saw Illya get stabbed in a dark Paris alley and he felt his own heart stop. 

Before Napoleon could think it through, or even try to control what was happening, he had fallen hopelessly in love for the _least_ eligible bachelor he could find. 

Finally feeling like he had gotten himself under control again, Napoleon returned to his chair with his remade drink.  Settling back down, he looked over their surroundings to try and keep his eyes off of Illya. 

The pool and patio area was made of mostly cracked stone and dull tile, with a few palm-trees drooping in the heat scattered about in pots.  It was all rather sad looking, but in the charming way that just made it more endearing. 

They were in Jamaica this month, staying in this little hotel, far enough from the beaten path to be discreet but still nice enough to satisfy all of the agents’ expensive needs—another point of constant debate with Waverly that was always nicely cleared up by a sweet look from Gaby. 

The same trick had made quick work of Illya’s insistence that a pool did not constitute a necessity; he and Gaby may not have ended up together, but his soft spot for her still ran deep. 

A very unhelpful part of Napoleon’s brain hoped that he would one day achieve that kind of importance in the Russian’s life, but he rejected that as just another silly fantasy—the kind of day dreaming that he had been trying to stamp out for longer than he would like to admit.    

“Here we go.” Gaby sat up and laid her magazine flat on her lap, pulling Napoleon from his thoughts. 

“You found them?” Napoleon leaned over to try and get a better look, as Illya hauled himself upright again. 

Gaby jabbed a finger at one of the pictures.  “There.”

Illya picked the magazine up from her lap and squinted at it.  “They do not seem that important.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Napoleon said, taking the magazine from Illya’s hands to look at it himself. 

The people in question were smiling at the camera from the deck of their yacht, looking impossibly perfect in their color coordinated outfits.  Napoleon grimaced a little; he always hated couples like that. 

The man was a wealthy industrialist, made millions in oil, but it was the woman, his fiancée, that they were here for.  According to Waverly’s information, she was only marrying him to get close enough to take control of his company. 

This wouldn’t normally be a matter for UNCLE, but it turned out that the wife-to-be, Evelyn, had quite a few connections to the same crime-syndicate that the Vinciguerras had been messed up in, and that UNCLE had been trying to take down for months. 

“Says here they’re having an engagement party.” Napoleon said, handing the paper back to Gaby, “That’s our in.”

“Obviously.” Illya crossed his arms over his chest, “But how do you propose we get into a party that is so exclusive they do not even print the date?”

“I was just going to get to that,” Napoleon squinted up at the Russian, having to hold up a hand against the glare of the sun, “Unless you have a plan in mind Peril?”

Even as the gears in Illya’s head turned, he still just closed his mouth and looked away. 

Clearly unamused at the constant banter, Gaby folded the magazine and laid it down on the small table next to her chair.  “Well?  What do you have in mind then?” she said. 

Napoleon turned his grin towards her.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

Above them, Illya let out a long-suffering sigh, and Napoleon’s grin grew even sharper. 

“We get in through a back door, and then slip into the crowd.  Blend in, mingle, try not to get drunk,” he gave Gaby a pointed look and she shrugged with a smirk, “Find the target, do what needs to be done, and get out.  Easy.”

“You should not say that.” Illya said.

“Why?”

“Bad luck.”

Napoleon scoffed as he stood up.  “Trust me,” he said, slapping Illya on the shoulder, “This will be a simple one.”

Shaking his head, Illya sighed again and followed Napoleon in towards their rooms to begin preparing.

\- -- - -- -

Getting into the party was just as simple as Napoleon said it was going to be, even if Illya would never admit it.  Napoleon would settle, happily, for the tiny twitch of a smothered smile that Illya gave him when he popped the lock on the cellar door in record time. 

They were accepted into the crowd quickly enough, another pair of dashing men in tuxedoes among the rest.  Napoleon caught Gaby’s eye from across the room and they shared a small nod.  In a faded gold gown, she was on the perimeter, keeping an eye on security and making sure that their escape route stayed clear. 

“Now, where is the hostess?” Napoleon said, fixing his cufflinks as he scanned the crowd.  When he turned back to Illya, he found that the Russian starring at him, his mouth slightly open.

As soon as he realized that Napoleon was watching him, Illya shook his head and pushed forward into the crowd.  Puzzled, Napoleon paused for a moment before brushing the look aside—there was a job that needed to get done. 

They circled the room once, twice, and then stopped at the bar so as to avoid any suspicion from the thinly disguised guards posted throughout the room. 

Leaning into the bar, Napoleon made eye contact with the pretty blonde sipping her drink a few feet away.  Smirking, he walked over and struck up a conversation.  Blending in had always been one of his strongest talents.  He could work himself into any situation like he was meant to be there. 

It got him out of more than a few scrapes over the years, and now it was helping them get one step closer to the end of this job. 

When the blonde’s date came back to lead her away, Napoleon politely said goodbye and turned back to find Illya back at the bar, slowly ripping apart a napkin.  It looked like he was determined to avoid engaging in everything that was happening around him. 

Illya was never really a fan of these kinds of events, but he had sure seemed particularly unhappy at this one. 

“What’s up with you today?”

Illya looked over to Napoleon as he walked up, “I am fine.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at him, “I’ve got to say Peril, for a spy you continue to be surprising horrible at lying.”

Illya huffed and dropped the napkin he had been shredding, “You always do that.”

Napoleon’s brows scrunched together, “Do what?”

Looking him dead on, Illya’s eyes were full of that intense energy they got when he was upset, the fire that Napoleon always felt he could get lost in. “You always say the meanest thing you could think of.”

Silence descended on them, thick and uncomfortable, and standing out in stark contrast to the frivolous chaos of the party. 

“Illya—”

“I see Evelyn.”

And Illya was gone, pushing through the crowd without another backwards glance.  For a moment, Napoleon stared after him, froze in place.  Was that really how Illya saw him?  As a bully?

Ice-cold guilt began to crush its way around his heart.  He had pushed and pushed and pushed, just like he always did, and now he was going to pay for it.  Even if he apologized and tried to change things, Illya had already seen through him, right to his damned core. 

Napoleon had already resigned himself to loving Illya from afar, but having Illya directly point out that he unworthy—it was crushing. 

But he didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity; he had a job to do. 

Pulling himself up, Napoleon strove forward, compartmentalizing away this moment, with all the other moments that wanted to pull him apart at the seams.

He found Illya, climbing the stairs to the second level of the building, and rushed to catch up with him.   “Where are you going?” he asked, coming level with the Russian.

“After our target.”

Napoleon let out a short breath through his nose, but held back on the comments running through his head.  Instead of stupidly blurting something out and making this worse, he just fell into step beside Illya and trusted him to know what he was doing.

They came to a hallway, just as glittering as the rest of the mansion but empty of the commotion that filled downstairs. 

“I just saw her walk up here.” Illya said, looking around the empty hallway. 

“She must be in here.” Napoleon said, reaching for the doorknob of the nearest door.  It clicked open and he stepped inside, glancing around the little study for a second, only to freeze in his tracks when he realized there was a gun pointed at him. 

A woman Napoleon recognized as Evelyn, looking glamourous in a tailored white suit and pumps, was standing just behind the door, and was now pressing the silencer of her pistol into his temple. 

“Now, what are you boys doing up here?” she said, her eyes flashing.  Out of the darkness behind her, a guard came forward and reached into Napoleon’s jacket, pocketing his gun, before moving onto Illya and his mini-arsenal of tucked-away weapons. 

In moments they were both defenseless and being led to a hidden elevator in the back of the room.  Down they went, and Napoleon’s stomach dropped further and further with each floor—going down was never a good sign, that’s where the secret labs and other unsavory things tended to be.

Sure enough, he and Illya were soon being led at gunpoint through a series of long hallways, ending in a small, windowless cell. 

“Now,” Evelyn followed them and produced a small camera from her own jacket pocket, “This is what we in the business like to call solitary confinement.” As she spoke, she took a photo of Illya, the flash capturing her sharp smile for a split-second. “You may not be solitary, but you will definitely be confined.” She took another of Napoleon, momentarily blinding him with the flash. 

Stepping back into the hall, Evelyn watched as the guard closed and locked an inner door, made of interlocking metal bars.  She waved at them through the door, and said, “I’m going to go use these,” she shook the camera for demonstrative effect, “to figure out who the hell you are, and what you are doing here.”

She turned, as if thinking of something else she needed to do that was more important, and the guard began hauling closed a second, outer door.  With a bang, the solid slab of reinforced metal fell into place, leaving them in darkness so deep that Napoleon couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. 

After the commotion of the party, and then being captured, the inside of the cell was something else entirely.  Totally cut off from the world, the black felt like a solid force, covering and surrounding them. 

There was a clicking sound as the second door was locked, and then silence fell on them too, just as suffocating as the dark. 

For a few long moments, Napoleon stood froze, only taking in the beating of his own heart and the chill slowly creeping through the soles of his shoes from the cement floor. 

And then, just as he was beginning to orient himself again in the utter emptiness, he became aware of another sensation.  Somewhere to his left, the silence was quickly being eaten away by my Illya’s increasingly heavy breathing. 

Napoleon started waving his arms around blindly, looking for anything solid.  “Peril?”

There was a muffled sound from across the room, as Illya apparently bumped into a wall, and his breathing got even more intense.

“<We’re trapped.>” Illya’s voice was horse, like he was in pain, and he’d dropped back into Russian, which was never a good sign. 

Napoleon’s hand finally brushed fabric, and he took a step towards Illya.  “<Are you okay?>”

“<What do you think?>” Illya was stepping further away from Napoleon. 

Napoleon kept walking towards the sounds of Illya, until his hands landed on Illya’s chest.  The Russian jerked back at the touch, but he had backed himself into a corner with nowhere else to go. 

“<You need to calm down Peril.>” Napoleon said, taking his hands off of Illya, but leaving them hovering close enough to the other man’s torso that he could defend himself if Illya started to lash out, “<Take deep breaths.>”

This had happened a few times before.  Napoleon never asked why it started; he didn’t want to make Illya dig up his own past, when Napoleon himself had never really offered much of his own. 

The first time had been scary, with them hiding in a dark crawl space as they waited for Gaby to take down the laser grid below.  By now at least, he knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it any less scary to see Illya like this. 

“Focus on me,” Napoleon said, switching back to English in an attempt to help Illya focus on something else, “I’m right here.”

Illya’s hands came out of the dark, finding Napoleon’s shoulders and holding on. “Yup,” Napoleon said, gritting his teeth a little as Illya’s fingers dug into his skin, “That’s me.  Breath with me.”

Napoleon starting taking deep, measured breaths.  After a few, Illya joined him, shakily at first.  It took a while, but his breathing did eventually begin to even out.  He calmed down enough to unhook his nails from Napoleon’s shoulders, thought his hands still rested on Napoleon’s upper arms. 

“How are you feeling?” Napoleon wished he could see Illya’s face to make sure that that scared, wild look was finally gone, “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be in here, so I really need to know if you’re going to be okay.”

“I am,” Illya paused, taking another breath, “okay, for now.”

“That’s good,” Napoleon very gently patted Illya’s chest, “I’ll take it.”

“I am sorr—”

“Don’t apologize to me, Peril.” Napoleon said, shaking his head, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Illya seemed ready to protest, but was also still too uncomfortable to get in a fight.

“Here,” Napoleon said, gently lifting Illya’s hands off his arms, “Sit down.  I’m going to just feel around the edge of the room to see if I can get us out of here.”

There was a shuffling, as Illya slid down the wall to the floor. 

“I promise I’m still here.” Napoleon said, taking a carefully step away from Illya and reaching around until he found a wall.  Quickly as he could, Napoleon felt his way around the edge of the floor and walls, but all he found was dirt, cobwebs, and the outline of the doorframe. 

When Napoleon finally made his way back to Illya, he settled himself down on the floor next to him.

They sat in relative silence for a moment, the events of the afternoon hanging between them. 

Quietly shuffling closer to Napoleon until their knees bumped together, Illya let out a small, tired breath.  “If you will not let me apologize, then can I at least say thank you?”

“Sure.” Napoleon reached over and gently patted Illya’s knee, “You’re welcome, I guess.”

Illya made a quiet, satisfied sound.  “I am grateful you are here.  I do not know what I would have done if I had been alone.” 

Momently speechless, Napoleon only realized after a beat or so that he was grinning like a fool.  For the first time since they got stuck in here, he was glad for the cover of darkness. 

“Don’t worry about it.” It was strange talking in the dark like this; if it weren’t for the warmth of Illya beside him, it would have felt like he was talking to thin air. 

Contemplating their situation for a bit, Napoleon leaned his head back into the wall behind him.  “Do you think they’ll feed us?”

“No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”

Silence stretched out again.

“Gaby’s probably figuring out how to get us out as we speak.”

Illya hummed in agreement. 

Normally when they were alone together, there was something else for them to do, or at least something else to pay attention to, whether it was a newspaper, a meal, or a mission.  This was different.  It was just them and the black. 

“Do you want me to stop talking now?” Napoleon asked. 

There was a moment of considering.  “No.”  Another pause before, “It helps.”

“Okay,” Napoleon stretched his legs out in front of him, “What do you want to talk about then?”

Illya huffed.  “You are better at it than I am.”

“I don’t know about that.” Napoleon cocked his head to the side.  “You can be very talkative when you want to be.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Napoleon said, “Remember when you found out Gaby used to do ballet?”

“Ah.” Illya said, “I was drunk and she was confused.”

“No, I was confused.” Napoleon said, “I had no idea what you were talking about—it didn’t help that you were switching languages every other sentence.”

“You should brush up on your vocabulary then.”

Napoleon let out a breath through his teeth.  “Okay Peril,” he said, “Let’s change the subject.  I don’t want to fight you tonight.”

Illya sounded quieter when he replied, “Just tonight?”

“I never _want_ to fight with you.” He said, looking down at his hands out of habit, even in the dark, “It just happens.”

Illya didn’t respond to that, and they lapsed back into silence for a bit. 

Napoleon started racking his brain for question that he could ask, but all the things he wanted to know about Illya were too personal, too close to the heart. 

Reaching for anything to say, Napoleon opened his mouth to just start prattling on about fashion or something when Illya cleared his throat next to him and said, “I am glad you do not want to fight with me.”

This was not at all what Napoleon had expected, but he wasn’t going to complain.  “Oh yeah?”

“ _Da_.  It would be very bad for team.”

Napoleon let out a huff through his nose, and smothered his pang of disappointment in the back of his mind.  “Of course.”

“Do you like working for UNCLE, Cowboy?”

Napoleon leaned his head back against the wall again and sighed, his mind fliting through the last year, filled with daring escapes and car chases, picked locks and new scars—and three people who had somehow worked their way into his life and become something close to family. 

“Yeah.” He said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “It’s fun.”  He poked at Illya’s side a little with his elbow.  “What about you Peril?” 

Illya also took a moment to consider his answer, before saying, “Yes, it is a good job.”

Napoleon grinned briefly, “We agree on something?  This is a historic moment.”

“Maybe we should have been locked in cell earlier.”

“Gaby has definitely considered it on at least a few occasions.”

“I think she had it all planned out at one point too.”

Napoleon chuckled, and then tried to adjust his seat on the floor.  The unforgiving cement was making his back cramp; the cold seeping into his legs from the floor wasn’t helping much either. 

“They seriously need to update their central heating.” He said.

Illya made a noise of agreement, adjusting his own position a little bit.  “It could be worse.”

Napoleon huffed out an almost-laugh.  “That’s what you said the last time we almost froze to death.”

After another pause, Napoleon was surprised to feel Illya shuffling even closer to him; their sides were flush now.

As if sensing the question on Napoleon’s tongue, Illya simply said, “If you are cold, we should share heat.”

“Uh,” Napoleon carefully let himself relax against Illya, both the heat pouring off of the other man and rare contact warming him, “Thanks Peril.”

Illya hummed beside him and Napoleon reveled in the way that he could feel the vibrations of Illya’s voice buzz against his arm.

It reminded him of a time, not too long ago, that they had gotten stuck on a roof in France.  They had to lay side by side, flush against each other as they waited for the professor to leave his apartment. 

With nothing better to do for an hour or so, they had watched the stars slowly appear in the twilight. 

Illya, it turns out, knew quite a bit about astronomy, and Napoleon had happily spent most of the time listening to the rumble of Illya’s whispers as he pointed out planets and constellations stretching across the sky. 

It was one of Napoleon’s favorite memories. 

“Peril,” he started, running a hand over his pants to straighten a crease he couldn’t even see, “Remember the time you showed me where all the stars and things were?”

“Of course.” Illya said, almost too quickly, like it was on his own mind as well. 

“Where did you learn about all that?”

This made Illya pause again.  They didn’t often talk about their past unless it was necessary for their particular mission.

“I had an uncle who was an astronomer,” Illya said quietly, “He gave me a telescope for my birthday once.”

Napoleon tried to imagine what Illya had been like then, before his life had been upended and he joined the KGB.  What would it have been like if they had met then, before all the generals and handlers and officials had taken their toll on both them? 

“I knew a guy in the army who always talked about going to the moon.” Napoleon leaned his head back against Illya’s shoulder without thinking, his mind spinning back in time.  Illya didn’t seem to mind, and Napoleon’s heart beat an extra little rhythm in his chest.  “We all thought he was crazy, but now that’s all anyone ever talks about.”

Illya let out a kind of snort, and Napoleon couldn’t help but grin.

Once the floodgate was opened, once Napoleon had found just the right key to unlock Illya, it was easy to talk.  What must have been hours, but barely felt like anytime at all, flew by as they traded stories of both their time together and of their lives before UNCLE.

An unspoken agreement seemed to pass between them and they steered clear of the difficulties they were both very aware were there, focusing instead on the funny and the mundane.  Even surrounded by an unending dark, their stories seemed to bring light to the room. 

One particularly dumb story about a stray cat Napoleon tried to take in, but then ate all of his neighbor’s birds, sent Illya into a fit of giggles like Napoleon had almost never seen. 

It was probably fatigue and the after-effects of adrenaline more than anything, but Napoleon’s heart still warmed at the sound.  It was so rare that Illya laughed out loud like this; he always kept this part of himself hidden behind the persona he was trying to present to the world—something Napoleon knew all too well.

A pang went through him, as he remembered what had happened at the party, what Illya had said.  Acidic guilt rose up in his gut and quickly ate through his good mood. 

Napoleon spent so much time thinking about how he presented himself to the world that he had forgotten how his attitude might affect the other people around him—those very people who he was starting to see as his family. 

After a moment, Napoleon bit down his guilt and made a decision. 

“Peril?”

“Yes Cowboy?” Illya said, finally calming down from his laughter. 

Napoleon bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

Serious again, Illya shifted a little and simply asked, “Everything?”

“Yeah.” Napoleon tried not to become fixated on the new places they were touching, instead forcing himself to keep going, “What you said at the party before we got into this whole mess—”

“Napoleon—”

“No,” Napoleon reached out blindly and ended up resting his hand on Illya’s leg for a moment, “Let me get this off my chest.”  He took a breath.  To properly explain what he was feeling, he would need to actually get at a part of his past that he hadn’t properly looked at in a long time and had certainly never brought up around Illya. 

“My parents were very poor,” Illya went very still beside him, “and they always resented that.”  Memories of that dirty, cramped apartment, resurfaced above all of the nostalgia of the evening and Napoleon had to suppress a shudder.

“They blamed everyone, including me.  Especially me.” He rolled some dirt from the floor between his fingers, “I promised myself that I would get out of there and never let anyone make me feel that small ever again.”

He threw the bit of dirt across the room. “You know how well that went.  First the army, then the CIA and its damn bureaucracy—” Napoleon let out a long breath, imaging the cloud of steam he would see if they had a single sliver of light.  After calming down, he leaned into Illya’s side a little bit more, a soft pressure to drive home his next point, “I’m just trying to say that I’m sorry about being such a terrible person.  I learned from the best.”

For what felt like a long time after that, a heavy silence settled between them. 

Finally, out of the darkness came: “You are not a terrible person.”

Napoleon let out a sad excuse for a laugh.  “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Illya’s voice was full of a conviction that surprised Napoleon, “You are a good person who has a very bad habit of lashing out at everyone.  You get defensive, even around me and Gaby.  But, you’re getting better, opening up.  I reacted too harshly at the party; I was—upset over something else.  You didn’t deserve that,” Illya leaned into Napoleon, making a buzz run up Napoleon’s arm, “especially since you are my friend.”

Sudden, bright warmth spread through Napoleon’s chest, “We’re friends?”

Illya quickly turned to him, and Napoleon tried to look up towards a face he really couldn’t see.

“Of course.” Illya said, his voice making it clear that the concept of them being anything else was pure insanity, “I—” he faltered for a moment, but the certainty in his voice never faded, “What did you think we were?”

Napoleon shrugged, “I don’t know.  Coworkers maybe?  People usually leave after they’ve known me for long enough,” he blinked at the darkness, “I just assume that you were sticking around because you didn’t have a choice.  Or because of Gaby.”

For whatever reason, it took Illya a minute to process this.  After the beat of silence, the Russian finally said, “You cannot think so little of yourself?”

“Illya—”

There was a shuffled of movement, then Illya’s hands reached out of the darkness and found his arms.  “I do not know what your parents, or any of those other fools, told you, but they were wrong.” Napoleon could just barely make out the shape of Illya’s face in the darkness, but the passion in his voice rang clear as a bell.  “You are worthy.  You are a good person.”

Napoleon was frozen in place.  His chest felt too tight, like it might explode, but not with pain or despair, but with the undying, overpowering gratitude, and _love_ , he felt cursing through him.  He had no idea what he had done to make Illya believe so strongly in him, but the words still washed over him like waves. 

For a moment, Napoleon leaned in, the pull of the tide carrying him towards the other man.  But he forced himself to stop short, close enough to feel Illya’s breath on his face, but not close enough that the movement could be misconstrued. 

For a split second, Napoleon could have sworn that Illya leaned in too; the grip on his arms softening and twitching upwards, towards his shoulders, towards his face. 

Was he imagining things?  Was the dark finally driving him to hallucination?  “Illya—?”

A blinding light enveloped them and Napoleon leaned back in shock.  The hands left his arms, rising up to instead shield Illya’s eyes.  Napoleon’s hissed and squinted up at the guard who was now unlocking the inner doors. 

When both doors had clanged open, the guard stepped aside and Evelyn stepped in.  She had changed into a new, simple but undeniably elegant suit of deep blue.  Towering over them in her knife-sharp heels, she put both her hands on her hips and watched them.

“Now,” She said, her voice a soft purr, “I’m sorry for being so mean to you boys earlier.  You’ve actually done me a huge favor—there’s no way Central won’t promote me when they hear I’ve captured two spies straight from UNCLE.  First thought,” She raised one of her manicured nails, “I’d rather like to send a message back to your main man.”

Illya shifted beside Napoleon, his muscles tensing as she kept talking.

“The thing is,” she looked back to them and pursed her lips, “I only need one of you to send a message, as two heads would be far too expensive to ship all the way to England.”

All the hairs on the back of Napoleon’s neck stood up.  Next to him, Illya was moving slightly forward and getting his feet under him again.  Napoleon’s stomach dropped like a stone. 

Illya was going to run for it, try to fight his way out, despite the fact that it was clearly suicide.  Napoleon eyes flashed.  He needed a new plan and he needed it right damn now, before Illya did something stupid and got himself killed. 

It appeared that Evelyn didn’t know about Gaby, or didn’t think she was a threat.  That mistake would soon cost her, when Gaby showed up with reinforcements in tow to take down the entire base.  If Napoleon distracted Evelyn for long enough—bought Gaby enough time—Illya might actually make it out of this hell alive.

His eyes flashing sideways to the man in question one more time, Napoleon made a decision.

Quickly standing up, Napoleon spit at Evelyn’s feet and squared his shoulders.

Napoleon refused to look away from her as she scrutinized him, no doubt looking for weaknesses she could exploit.  She never once spared a glance towards Illya, so Napoleon called the move a success. 

“Now why would you do that?” She asked, like he was still a boy.  The tone infuriated him. 

“You only need one of us,” he stiffly shrugged, “and I’d like the opportunity to get out of this damn cell and take you down a few pegs.”

Napoleon could only hear Illya’s sharp intake of breath at his side, as he kept his eye locked on Evelyn’s, watching as a dark fire ignited behind them. 

“Oh really?” One of her eyebrows arched up as her smile turned knife-sharp. 

“Yeah,” Napoleon plastered on his smuggest grin, “Or are you scared of what I could do once I get out of here?” He crossed his arms across his chest, using the motion to cover a quick glance down towards Illya.  It was only a split second of a look, but Napoleon could see the recognition written across Illya’s face. 

Illya knew exactly what Napoleon was doing—sacrificing himself. 

Evelyn flicked her short hair over her shoulder and stepped back, letting three armed guards into the room.  One aimed at Illya and he reluctantly stood up and moved to press his back into the wall.  Another pressed a gun into Napoleon’s back and lead him past the third, standing at the door. 

Napoleon was already into the hall when he realized that that had probably been the last time he would ever see Illya; that the last thing he was would see of the man he had so totally fallen for was that one devastated look as he realized that Napoleon was going to die for him. 

The finality of the moment, punctuated by the sound of the first door clanging shot behind him, took Napoleon’s breath away for a moment.  But as he was led further and further away, something new shot through his veins.

In one swift motion, he elbowed the guard at his right and shoved the one to his left off his feet.  Running full tilt, he was able to get back to the cell, to Illya, before anyone else registered what happened.  Wrapping his hands around the bars that separated them, Napoleon leaned forward and opened his lips, letting the words that he had been biting back for months and months and months finally fall freely:

“Illya,” He said, urgent but calm, “I love you.”

Everything seemed to slow, the rest of the world forgotten for a split-second as Illya took a startled step forward, his eyes wide with shock. 

“W—What?” Illya said, one hand reaching out towards that bars, “Napo—”

There was a sharp pain at the base of Napoleon’s skull and the world melted into another inky, black void. 

\- -- - -- -

A solid wall of cold woke Napoleon up with a gasping, sputtering start, his heart working overtime to catch up with the rest of his body. 

Putting aside a bucket, now empty of its ice water, Evelyn stood in front of him in another suit, this one a deep purple. 

Spitting out some of the water that had gotten into his mouth, Napoleon said, “I’m going to need the number for your tailor, he’s got real talent.”

Evelyn laughed at that, a sharp, piercing sound, as she turned and took of her heels, throwing them in a corner. 

Taking the opportunity to finish taking stock of his current situation, Napoleon looked around the room that he was currently strung up in.  His wrists were shackled to two chains hanging from the ceiling, just long enough for his toes to brush the floor if he reached for it.  Off to one side was a table with an assortment of terrible looking knifes and things messily piled on it, and on the other was a metal door. 

There were no windows, but there was, Napoleon noticed, a dirty grate in the center of the floor. 

A drop of terror, white-hot, hit his gut, but Napoleon kept himself from showing any of it, his years of personal training and experience taking over as he turned back to Evelyn. 

Her wicked, razor like, smile was back and brought with it a flash of a memory, of burning electricity and ugly laugher.  With a sinking feeling, Napoleon knew that she was having fun, that she was going to enjoy watching his life slowly leak out of him. 

He also knew that it was going take as long as she could possible make it.  The longer he managed to survive—the more time he would buy for Illya. 

Clinging to that slimmer of hope, Napoleon took a long, labored breath and closed his eyes, ready for whatever fate was in store for him. 

Not one to disappoint, Evelyn started with a short switch of cane, beating him with it until his back was raw and bloody.  She then went for one of her knives, and it wasn’t long before Napoleon passed out again. 

He only became conscious in short fits and starts after that, with little entering his pain-addled mind besides the burn in his shoulders and rasp of his own breath. 

It wasn’t until the wave of fresh air hit him that he even realized he had left the room.  Looking around blearily, he tried to figure out where he was but couldn’t make out much besides the weak blue of an early morning sky and the hazy brown of the buildings fading behind him.

Someone was carrying him, someone with broad shoulders, calloused hands and a thick, heavy voice. 

“Illya?”

The blurry face turned to him and started to speak, but the words were lost to the void as the darkness enveloped him again and everything crumbled back into nothing.

The first thing Napoleon truly became conscious of was a blanket resting on top of him.  It was heavy, and it was keeping him a little too warm for comfort.

He went to push it back, to get some air, and found that his arms were significantly heavier than he remember them being.  After making a few attempts to move the blanket, he gave up, breathing heavily. 

Now that some of the fog was starting to lift from his brain, he recognized that he was in a hospital room, clean and white and smelling overwhelmingly of disinfectant.  The familiarity of these sensations were comforting in their own way; they were the first solidly recognizable things he had encountered since—

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

A hospital meant that he got out, that he was safe.  He wasn’t currently in much pain, though the all-pervading numbness that surrounded him marked the use of many pain-killers.

Looking around some more, he tried to figure out just where he was, whether he was back in the States or still somewhere in the Caribbean.  He was examining the drawn curtains when the door in the corner of the room opened. 

Napoleon blinked at the sight of Illya, scruffy, pale, and gawking at him.  Napoleon opened his mouth to talk but found his throat dry and his tongue sluggish. 

In a flash, Illya seemed to shake off whatever was holding him the doorway and he was beside Napoleon, “Are you okay?  What do you need?” He asked, his hands hovering, unsure, above his bed, “Are you in pain?  Napoleon?”

Napoleon swallowed and managed to get finally get everything in gear enough to say, “I could use a drink.”

Illya blinked at him for a moment, and then started looking around rather frantically.  When he found a glass of water on the bedside table, he picked it up and held it out to Napoleon.  The glass shook slightly in Illya’s hand, and after a moment of trying to take a hold of it with numb fingers, Napoleon gave up.

Realizing this, Illya, after an uncertain pause, leaned in and helped Napoleon take a sip. 

Remarkable, nothing spilled on him and soon Illya was placing it back on the table and simply watching him with wide, shocked eyes. 

“I really look that bad huh?”

“Napoleon…” Illya voice was quick but serious, not really a statement but not really a question.  It was as if Illya was amazed by his very existence. 

Something in Napoleon tensed in anticipation.  “How long was I out?”

“A week.”

 _A week?_ He looked back to Illya, taking in his stumble and the dark circles under his eyes.  “Have you been here the whole time?”

For the first time since he had opened the door, Illya refused to meet his gaze.  Finally, he nodded, trying to cover the movement with a shrug. 

“Why?” In the back of Napoleon’s fuzzy head, a memory buzzed insistently but he couldn’t quiet put a finger on what it was trying to tell him.

Illya looked back to him, his eyes unreadable but soft. 

“Because I did not want you wake up alone.” he said, his voice sounding thicker than usual.

“Oh.” Napoleon leaned back and thought on this revelation, unsure of where to take their strange little conversation next. 

Luckily, Illya seemed to have something he wanted to get off his chest.

“Napoleon…” he started, staring down at his own hands, “About what you said—”

That memory, the fuzzy one that had been calling for his attention, came back to him in a flood of words and sensations.  He had told Illya— _he had told Illya_ —and now he was going to get an awkward rejection speech and nothing will ever be the same ever again. 

His heart clenched in preparation, and he cut Illya off, saying: “I’m sorry.”

That seemed to take Illya by surprise.  He paused, his brows drawing together.  “For what?”

“You don’t have to talk to me anymore if—wait—” The pieces started to vaguely fit back into place in his head; Napoleon realized that despite what he had confessed, Illya had still spent a week at his bedside, just to make sure he wouldn’t wake up alone. 

Something close to hope sputtered to life in his chest.  

“You don’t hate me?”

The question, quiet and fragile, hung in the air between them.  Just as always, Illya’s every emotion flickered across his face; his nervous concern was replaced by something much softer. 

“I am upset that you chose the exact worst time possible to finally say something about your feelings,” Illya started slowly, “And I am mad that you did not even give me a chance to say goodbye before throwing yourself to the wolves,” he met Napoleon’s gaze, “But I could never hate you.”

The flicker started to grow. 

Illya was smiling now, one of the rare, big toothy ones that always made Napoleon’s heart melt.  “Because, I—” heat rose to Illya’s cheeks but the smile never left his lips, “I love you too, of course.”

Napoleon stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck.  “ _Of course?”_ Napoleon finally said, incredulous, “What do you mean ‘of course?’  I thought you were still getting over Gaby until, uh, three seconds ago.”

“I can assure you Cowboy, the one romance I am interested in is with you.”

Napoleon continued to gawk at Illya.  He would have been happy with just an “I still want to be your friend” but this?  He had barely ever let himself dream about this.

“You’re in love me?” he said, shaking his head a little as he tried to take it in. 

Next to him, Illya started to laugh, “ _Da_.  And I will say it as many times as you want to.” He leaned in a little closer, “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“ _Would it be okay_?” Napoleon was grinning now too as he watched a beaming, almost glowing, Illya lean in even closer, “Absolutely.  Of course.  Why aren’t you doing it already?”

Illya was laughing softly as he pressed his lips to Napoleon’s, spreading warm breath across his face.  The kiss was soft, gentle, with one of Illya’s hands coming up to ghost over his cheek and brush into his hair. 

Napoleon’s greed got the better of him and he tried to reach up, to deepen it, but ended up gasping as a painful cramp shot up his neck. 

Illya pulled back immediately.  Still hovering, his eyes wide with concern, he looked fruitlessly for a way to help.  “Are you okay?”

“I was beaten half to death,” Napoleon finally said, carefully resting his head back on his pillow, “But besides that, I am doing just fine.”

It took considerable longer for Illya’s concern to soften away this time, but he did finally let his hands rest on either side of Napoleon’s face.  One of his thumbs started to carefully trace the curve if his cheek bone, moving reverently over the skin, like he was made of glass. 

Napoleon watched Illya, taking in the way his skin looked drawn and pale.  He would have to get Gaby to drag him off to get some sleep now that he was up and clearly alive. 

“You, on the other hand,” he said, trying to keep the mood light, “look like you desperately need a shower.”

Shaking his head, Illya finally let out a happy huff.  “I don’t know why I was so worried.  You would never leave me without getting the last word.”

Napoleon let out a bark of laughter at that; it was short, and vaguely painful, but wonderful none the less.  They stayed like that, just soaking up each other’s presence as Illya softly caressed Napoleon’s face, for a long time. 

They knew that someone else would eventually show up, to talk to Illya or look over Napoleon, and this moment would be broken by the realities of the world. 

But for now, for one fragile, prefect little moment, it was just them, and their love, and the joy of knowing they were loved in return. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!


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